Love's Diner

Going through the process of meeting someone, challenges, changes we may desire, breaking up, the heartache, how we go through it/then reconciling with the memory.

Love’s Diner

 

Scars are souvenirs platter, Gathered together in intricate patterns 

Upon once affectionate splatters while lying in an empty bed,

Wondering why he’s not there.

 

A mosaic reflecting perceptions tolerantly meticulously stained

By mounting manifestations of self-recognition,

Sculpting each other for a little bit of this and that:

If he would or wouldn’t all for the power of love.

Change: What a slow cooking pot of crock!

It is there or it is not.

 

Wondering, tediously analyzing situations to find blame,

Forgetting true love doesn’t ask or shame,

It gives pleasure and beauty blending the waves

Forming individual shapes unique and brave.

 

Denying the cascading resistance, like tumbleweeds rolling on the prairie,

There we go, flailing about like fish out of water dying inside, gasping for air,

The flattened earth dirtied thirsty and un-flattered,

Wondering why upon whines and cries we hold inside,

Like babies we want, we need, forcing pieces of a puzzle to fit,

That never did, not one bit.

 

Ignited by senses, smells, touches and tinder,

We play our games wishing for love: Is he,

 Is he?, my true, desperately seeking acceptance,

 until “Is he” becomes Izy, Izy, Izy and you’re worn out and dizzy.

 

But still amazed at the rattle of the rungs of his ladder,

Resisting rejection, seeking acceptance, the lure, the challenge,

We climb higher hoping for complimentary chatter, the smiles,

Of shilley- shalley.

 

The sweet potent scent of loves caressing powder,

Hesitant to call out the flaws, we shudder and quiver but eventually fall.

A hungry lusts’ evolution: a mugger, a bamboozler,

 Like when a blazing fire meets rain,

Or pulling at a rusty chain, the anchor is free, we finally surrender.

 

The sticky clusters of fantastical visions,

Evolve into reconciliation of once loving memories.

 

The Placenta of an affair falls like death at our door,

What a bloody mess, dying leisurely in aggregate,

Gradually crucified landing on glass laden floors.

The fragments strewn on our hard metal gutters,

Remnants lay in the confused voices of clutter.

 

Pains of heartache remain, a ballet lonely minds play,

Sometimes feeling like punishment we cannot sustain.

But IT IS Love’s Diner, nothing’s finer, with reconciliations’ blessing

The hurt disappears like yesterday’s leftovers of once sad matters.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

it is like sitting down for a meal...romance...appetizers, starting the main course, those side dishes of good and bad experience together, the end of the entree and then the dessert---either the good dessert that has us going to bed happy, or the bad dessert that makes us chuck up the entire meal...and then move on...
hurt is inevitable...it is how we bounce back, how we approach the next meal...
i like the metaphor carried throughout this piece...we must taste it to experience it---
i like what Ana said...

"food for thought"---

[Matching Socks]

Very good Dale, could feel all those emotions.
The desire, the uncertainty, the longing.
Love is so hard to understand, or maybe love is easy to understand and it's only hard when it's not real.
Food for thought.

[Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere]

It's a dish full of feelings, Dale. I've enjoyed eating from it. It was a delicious dinner with fine tastes. It was both a feast for the mouth, reading it, as for the mind recognizing it. Very well done, you grow in your writings. :) Rudi

[Sami Khalil]

Your poems are detailed, fresh and inspiring in words and imagery, A ballet of mind and soul dance if I can borrow from you. Excellent in its evolution...:).................

[Daisy]

wonderful poem and so true.....